


Quiet Heroics

by themidnightrhapsody



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themidnightrhapsody/pseuds/themidnightrhapsody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about being smart is that you can see how things work, whether you mean to or not. CSI assistant Berry Allen is about to learn why it's not always a perk. Genderbend, pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Science of Human Cruelty

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up: this takes place long before the beginning of the show. It's also genderbent because I'm crazy and genderbend everything at least once in my head, and while there are no pairings, there's a slight mention of the canon unrequited Barry/Iris…so if you're weird about girls crushing on girls, you might want to go away. (Bartholomew "Barry" Allen is Bernadette "Berry" Allen.)
> 
> I don't own the Flash.

You're not sure whether Joe can save your ass this time. You know you're very, very good at what you do, and your coworkers do too – that's why they don't do more than tease you when you race into the station ten minutes later than you should every morning – but this case is time-sensitive, and you're thirty minutes late. This time it's legitimately not your fault, but considering this is only your third time out to a crime scene and everyone knows your little habit of perpetual tardiness, they probably won't believe you.

"Thank you for joining us, Allen," says the Captain – shit, he's here too? You're so fired after this, you just know it.

"Sorry I'm late," you reply, ducking your head. You don't want to look at Joe, who will probably be giving you his patented I-would-ground-you-if-I-still-could stare, which always makes you feel three foot tall. "What's happened here?"

"Homicide." He pauses, and says quietly, "You might want to prepare yourself. It's a pretty nasty one."

"I thought that as an assistant I wasn't allowed to work murder cases," you say, pulling out a pair of gloves nonetheless. Joe isn't a homicide detective, or at least he wasn't last time you checked, which makes this whole thing much weirder.

"Well, Smith is out with food poisoning, so you're it. Do a good job on this one and maybe I'll think about not firing you."

Well, then. Since you're so late, they'll have taken plenty of photos of the scene, and you can dive right in – oh,  _god._

The scene is nauseating, but you switch off the part in your brain that automatically sees them as two dead human beings and switch on the part that sees the scene as a puzzle to solve. Two bodies on the floor in the living room, one of which has a line across her neck. Neither of the bodies have gone into the rigor mortis stage, which means this is a fresh crime scene…which means that the blood still hasn't dried. Focus. From the directionality of the slit and the spray pattern on the wall by the body, adjusting for time factors and the very, very remote possibility that the killer stood on his or her toes during the act, the killer isn't much taller than she is – about 1.7 meters tall. She wasn't moving when the weapon was drawn across her throat – from the front, as evidenced by the slight variation in the pattern and the fact that there's a partial footprint in the pooled blood – and if you're correct, which you usually are, the weapon was thin and about twenty centimeters inches long.

Other than the outline of the toe of a boot in the blood puddle, the killer was remarkably careful to keep out of the way. Still, you dutifully scrape under the victim's nails, despite the fact that she clearly didn't lash out, scour the ground for anything that sticks out – blond hair, and it's not hers since she's brunette, and even though the male body has blond hair you should bag it anyway, some gravelly stuff that may or may not be relevant, the little crucifix in her hand that is almost certainly irrelevant but it's not your job to decide – and store your findings in the extra compartments in your kit. You close your eyes for a moment to wash away the sight of your bloody hands, change your gloves, and move on.

You go to examine the male body and part of you recoils, but this is your job. You knew what you were getting into when you applied. This kind of mutilation usually implies some sort of emotional connection, but it's not your job to postulate motives, so you'll keep quiet about it. The face has been removed very carefully. You're not a medical doctor, but if you had to guess, you'd say that it was removed by a scalpel; it was certainly a different weapon than the one that slit the female body's throat, at any rate, tiny and precise. You don't gag when you shine your flashlight into the gooey eye sockets, but you're sure you'll throw up later.

"Did anyone get pictures of the eye sockets?" Your voice is steady. Good. "I need to swab for particulates, but I don't want to disturb anything."

"Go ahead," says a detective you don't know, and you nod, swallowing harshly.

You're not allowed to look away from what you're doing, but you would if you could. The eyeballs have been crushed entirely, almost like the killer removed them and then squeezed them into pulp before pouring the pulp back into the sockets, so you collect as much of it as you can and store it in a tight-seal container. Hopefully, you can separate the eye gunk and vitreous humor and other organic matter from traces of whatever the killer used as a weapon, but that's probably too much to ask. Still, you are nothing if not thorough.

Other than the mutilated eyes and the missing face, the victim is also missing his fingers, but unlike the facial tissue, the fingers haven't been removed from the scene; they're scattered around him like the killer played with them for a while. That's probably not what happened.  _Focus._ You scrape under the nails, sift through the fluid leakage for anything out of the ordinary, and change your gloves so you can examine the rest of the room. Searching the house will be much easier than searching the bodies, and although you're still in what Iris calls "science mode," you just want to turn tail and bolt out of there.

But you can't just run away. Even if you could run fast enough to escape the entire town, you'll never escape the images. You think you understand, now, why you're usually not allowed to work murders.

* * *

The Captain might still fire you, but even if he doesn't, you don't know how much longer you can do this job. After everything you saw, you don't feel comfortable out in the open, so you've decided to sit on the floor in the corner of your lab, mostly out of sight but close enough to the monitors to see any changes on the screens.

You've submitted your initial report, but you can't bring yourself to leave your lab. You're still running blood samples and what if your other tests finish sooner than they should? That's stupid. You know they won't. But you can't just sit around at home while a killer is on the loose. You feel like you know the killer now, because you went over the whole scene again and again in the interest of thoroughness and you're not a detective, but you're smart. Genius, your physics professor called you, and maybe it was a ploy to recruit you to the program but she wasn't the only one to use the term. It doesn't matter that your job is to collect data and run tests; you know the killer now.

You could  _be_  the killer. You can picture it in your mind, see yourself taking out your knife, and – and it's awful. The floor under you feels uncomfortable and you can't stop your legs from shaking. You want to run away.

"Berry? You okay?"

It's Iris. Of course it is. Out of all the times to walk in on you. You're not crying, but only because the tears are stuck in your sinuses, and you know you're blotchy and shaky and just a mess, and you don't want her to see you like this. "Uh…"

"What am I saying? Of course you're not okay." She sits down next to you and takes your hand. It's amazing, the way your hands always seem to fit together, and you don't feel better, but you kind of do. Just because she's here. Just because she cares. "Want to tell me about it?"

"Yeah," you reply, but you shake your head anyway. "But I promise you, you don't want to hear about it. I…I just want to forget."

And it's weird, because it's not like you haven't seen gorier stuff on television or in movies, but it's different. Seeing it in person, getting into the killer's head,  _seeing what happened_ over and over  _and over,_ is really messing with your head.

"Okay," she says.

"It's just." You swallow and try again. "I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?"

"I mean, I know there are murderers out there, more than just the one that got my mom. They're everywhere. We have crime shows and entire homicide divisions because people kill each other. But Iris, I don't understand  _why._ It's so senseless. I've been angry before, I've been jealous, I've been terrified, but I've never thought that killing someone would be the right solution. And now I feel like I'm the one who killed them, I'm the one who cut him up, and I can't  _do_ anything about it because I'm not the real killer. I'm not a cop, either. I'm not some kind of hero, like the Arrow or like Joe. I'm just a lab tech who saw everything and  _I don't want to see it anymore."_

She squeezes your hand and, thankfully, doesn't comment on the tears that are finally slipping out of your eyes. Iris has always been able to just get you like this. Finally, your breaths even out and she says quietly, "You know what I've always loved most about you?"

"My willingness to carry you through calculus?" It's a terrible joke, but it makes you feel a tiny bit better to see the smile on her face. "My tendency to sleep-eat?"

Iris rolls her eyes and puts her hand on your chest. "This. Right here."

Your brain completely fizzles out for a moment and you ask, stupidly, "My boobs?"

"Oh my god, Berry," she says, yanking her hand away and swatting you on the shoulder. "Your  _heart._ So many people, you know, they start looking at crime scenes and they lose this, but you care. You've always cared about other people, even if you didn't know them, even if it was scary and it hurt to care. You've always wanted to help people. And you're smart enough to actually do it."

"But I can't."

"Yes, you can. You absolutely can. Sure, you're not a cop. But the cops are the visible heroes, Ber; when it comes down to it, they couldn't be as accurate in their jobs if you weren't so good at yours. Last week you recreated an entire robbery just from looking at the damages!"

"It's just a matter of looking. They don't actually need me; anyone could do it."

"But that's where you're wrong. You're damn good at your job, and your work is gonna help them catch the guy who did this."

You breathe shakily and Iris sits beside you, quietly, still holding your hand. Eventually, you can move again, and you allow her to lead you out of your lab. Your face feels a little numb, but you're not going to cry or throw up, so at least there's that. You pass the Captain, who is looking at you thoughtfully, and you tell him, "I'll have those results for you within a few days. I'll update you as I get more information."

"Good job out there today, Sherlock," he replies, giving you a nod. "I see my trust wasn't misplaced."

It's nice to know that you're not going to lose your job, and your best friend will always be there for you, and you were planning to go home after work but you don't protest when Iris decides you're going to your childhood home instead. You'll have dinner with Iris and Joe and maybe today's crime scene will never leave you, but today you learned something new.

You're not a cop, but that doesn't mean you can't help people. And if your work can save just one person from being another victim, then it's worth doing after all.


	2. Hold Your Head High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berry's friendship with Iris has always made her a better person, and we find out more about the way she approaches a crime scene. Iris proves that there's more than one way to be a hero.

You're not bothered by being alone. It's not lonely for you, and you don't get bored by your own thoughts. But sometimes you wonder how it could have been, had you been different.

Once upon a time, you were just the weird kid with the comic books and all the right answers and the annoying tendency to rush in to help even when you weren't wanted. Then you were the same weird kid, but you were also the kid whose dad killed her mother. High school came around and you were the prodigy, the genius, but that never helped anybody socially. Gawky and awkward, you grew to the embarrassing height of six-two, your chest stayed flat, you kept your hair short for the sake of practicality, and you were never a tomboy, but you couldn't be like Iris, either.

You were constantly on the outside, until Becky Cooper who dated you until she realized you were actually a girl and Ben Davidson who genuinely liked you, but couldn't keep up with you intellectually.

Nobody could, really. You should have graduated early, but you wanted to stay with Iris for as long as possible. To keep yourself from crippling boredom, you took college classes, graduating from high school with enough credits to have earned an Associate's, and it was finally time to part from Iris but it was okay because you were both adults. You didn't  _need_ each other anymore.

You need her now.

It's not that she's your only friend, because honestly, she's not; you could call up a couple of your old classmates from either of your two degrees, or even from the physics department, and knock back a few beers if what you desired was companionship…but it isn't. You could even grab coffee with Smith if you were really desperate, but you're not. The truth is that you need Iris because she's your best friend, she gets you, and she wants you. Maybe not like you want her, but she loves you in her own way and you need that right now.

"We caught him," you tell her, not quite looking at her but not paying attention to anything else. It's Thursday afternoon and you're out to lunch, one of the routines you never left behind after college, and you've been pushing your chow mein around for twenty minutes now. You can't bring yourself to take a bite. Iris eats when she's stressed, but your stress takes the form of decreased appetite and apathy.

"The murderer from a couple of weeks ago?"

"Yeah."

"You don't seem happy."

You scowl down at your plate, wishing you could go back to normal. Generally speaking, you're pretty laid-back and satisfied with life. You  _should_ be happy now, but you still feel like a killer. You still dream about slitting that woman's throat with your twenty centimeter knife. Can you tell Iris? You've always been able to confide in her, just like she's always been able to confide in you. That's what best friends do. But you're not sure you want to share this burden with the person you love most. "I'm not."

She reaches over the table to take your hand and your heart feels like it's swelling. It's the little things like this that trip you up and keep you from saying anything about your feelings for her, from letting the rush of dopamine and vasopressin and oxytocin and norepinephrine spill out of your mouth in the form of a (probably characteristically clumsy) confession. As much as you'd love to kiss her, to hold her, you're afraid of losing this. "What's wrong? I thought it would help. I know something's been bothering you, and I figured it was the case, but..."

"I guess I feel guilty."

She purses her lips slightly and looks at you through her eyelashes. "What do you have to feel guilty about?"

Can you do it? You have to. You're going to explode otherwise. "When I look at a scene, I don't just solve a puzzle. I step into the shoes of the person who left the evidence. I reverse the situation, rebuild the crime, and become them. I mean, I don't really understand the why; I've never seen the point of committing a crime. It's illogical in any situation, even if you start with an irrational premise. It's just that I see exactly  _what_  happened, because everything – trajectory, placement, spatter, the scope of the  _physical evidence –_ can be reversed easily via basic physics and chemistry and observation. And it wasn't this hard before, because I became thieves and burglars, but this time I became a murderer. And I know I didn't kill them, I know I'll never kill anyone, but I still feel like...like I've done something terrible. Maybe  _because_ I don't understand the motive. I'm killing them over and over in my head for no reason."

The sound she makes is a cross between a sigh and a snort. Very inelegant and very adorable, you notice distantly. "Ber, I really can't tell if you're a genius or an idiot."

"Thanks," you say, almost hurt.

"No, don't misunderstand me. I get it, I do. I know you've always been…really analytical. You don't look at the world like I do, so of course I can't exactly sympathize with you, but I don't mean to say that you're a stupid person. But the fact is that you  _didn't_ kill them. You helped them. I don't really believe in an afterlife, but if there was one, I'm sure they'd be glad they had a competent CSI on their case."

"Assistant," you correct, before you can stop yourself.

"Yeah. Assistant." She rolls her eyes. "You know you're better than anybody else in the area; job titles aren't the issue here. The issue is that you're being silly. Stop moping; you're awesome."

And you feel her squeeze your hand tightly and you wonder how even when she's making fun of you, she makes you feel loved. Safe. That's what best friends are for. Do you make her feel like that? You can't ask without sounding weird and suggestive, so you'll just have to be more attentive. Well, even more attentive than you are now, which most people would say is impossible, but you know better. There's always more to see, more to learn. "You know what, Iris?"

"What?"

"You're right."

"Of course I am. I'm awesome too."

You don't quite feel the smile you give her, but there's a quiet truth in the idea that you'll get better if you actively try to get better. "I'm glad I have you. You've always been there to pull me out of my head when it gets too weird in there. Thank you for…being there for me. For being my friend."

"You're a hero, Berry." Her smile is genuine. "Don't you ever forget it."

You squeeze back. "You know what else?"

"What?"

"You're a hero, too. My hero."

She's probably going to call you a damsel in distress or something when she opens her mouth again, because despite the rather dark nature of your thoughts right now, she knows you well enough to know that you respond better to humor than genuine sympathy or scolding. You're being serious, though, when you call her your hero. She's been saving you since you were five. Your friendship with her has made you the kind of person you like, the kind of person you can be proud of, and realistically, you wouldn't be where you are today if you hadn't made friends with her.

One day, you'll return the favor. You'll make sure you're always there for her, always available to hold her hand if she needs it, always ready to run to her side when she calls. Even if she never feels the same way you do, you will always treasure her friendship…and strive to be the best friend you can possibly be. If she ever needs saving, you'll do whatever it takes.


	3. Echoes of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past catches up to Berry in more ways than one. Will this set the stage for drama? Knowing Berry Allen, probably not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note about the timeline: Berry’s been a busy bee. In her pursuit of science, justice, and closure, she’s – at twenty-four – got three degrees: chemistry, physics, and criminal justice. Here’s how it played out: she graduated high school with enough credits for an AS in physics, but went on to pursue a BS. She double majored in chemistry and physics with a minor in criminal justice, then stayed in school for two more years to get a degree in that as well. Graduated for the final time at twenty-three, started working forensics shortly after, and she’s been on the job for about six months now. The show begins in about a year and a half. Yes, this is possible; I’m doing it myself, albeit without criminal justice and with a more interesting and suitable third degree.

The snap of your gloves is comfortable. There’s always comfort in repetition, a soft calm in getting lost in a case, and this one – well, this one’s easy. It definitely wasn’t a professional job, and there’s _more_ than enough evidence to tell the story.

You broke in the easy way, by picking the lock. You’re not good at it yet, but you assumed it wouldn’t be noticed among all the chaos. After that, it was a matter of smashing the glass and taking what you came for – they kept their diamonds in a safe at night, but you were after the less valuable pieces, which can still fetch a decent price – and getting out before anyone could respond to the alarm you set off. You were wearing gloves and new shoes and a ski mask to hide your identity.

You don’t know anything about forensics.

“Look at this,” you say, trying not to grin. It’s inappropriate to smile at crime scenes, but you can hardly believe the level of incompetence the burglar has shown. “Blood on the broken glass. The culprit _cut themselves_ on the broken glass.”

“Clearly we’re looking for a first-timer. That’ll make it difficult to identify him,” says Detective Crawford, writing something down on his pad. You wish Joe were here, but he was transferred to homicide a few weeks ago and he doesn’t work burglary cases anymore unless he has an empty caseload, which is basically never. It’s not that Crawford is a bad cop, but he’s usually kind of stupid. Hopefully today will be a good day.

“I’ll get a couple of samples and take this…gravelly stuff…to the lab. Expect my written report by tomorrow morning,” you say, packing up your case again. Part of you likes these crime scenes, the easy in-and-out jobs that put zero stress on you. Part of you hates them because they are _really boring._ But Singh has been talking about giving you more murder cases – you’ll still technically be a forensic assistant until Smith says you’re ready, which he’ll never do because it will effectively make him redundant, but Peterson’s getting weirdly unreliable and everyone knows you’re the best woman for the job – so you’ll take the quiet ones gratefully.

“Thanks, kid,” he says.

You don’t bother to tell him you’re not a kid. He’ll probably be telling you that you look twelve when you’re forty.

* * *

Iris brings you dinner.

Sometimes if you’re stuck at work late, she brings you food and caffeine, and it’s lovely. You know she doesn’t think of you like that, but sometimes she does these nice things for you and you imagine – in the privacy of your own mind – that she _does,_ that she’s bringing you food and company because that’s what she’d do for a partner too, and it’s awful and you’re only setting yourself up for heartbreak and whatever, that’s fine, you can’t help it.

“You’re a goddess,” you tell her, shooting her a smile. She is. Honestly.

“Damn straight,” she replies. “Do you mind if I stay in here with you for a while?”

You don’t mind if she sticks by your side forever, but you’re not going to say that to her. That would be weird. And creepy. “Sure. Something wrong?”

“No, it’s just…” She lets out a breath. “Maybe. I’m just, maybe fighting with Dad.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Her glare is withering. “Ber.”

“Sorry.” You shrug and go back to your microscope. There’s some kind of tar residue you have to identify, something Peterson collected for a different case, and it’s proving elusive. “It’s just that you guys hardly ever fight.”

“And when we do, it’s awful, I know,” she says quietly. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I don’t see why he doesn’t _get_ that.”

“One-night stand?”

“Well, two nights, but yeah.”

You try not to think about it. Iris never talks about her conquests in detail, but you’re not into thinking about her with guys – or with other girls – or, really, with anyone. Even you. It’s easier for you to flap your mouth than to hold everything in, though, so you let it happen. “He just loves you, Iris. He’s worried you’re going to get hurt. He worries about you a lot.”

“Well, he worries about you, too, but you don’t see him butting into _your_ business.”

“Because I have my own place. And when’s the last time you saw me with anyone? I’m…” _In love with you,_ you don’t say. “…busy. I don’t have time for stuff like that.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s partly because you’re the slowest woman on Earth,” she jokes.

You don’t even bother to protest. If she were wrong, you wouldn’t constantly be the butt of jokes at work. _Whose cat were you rescuing today? Got a hangover, Allen? You do realize you can set alarms, right?_ Instead, you shrug. “I’m in love with my work, Iris. Anyway, you could always move out. He wouldn’t be able to say anything then.”

“Except that even if I worked double shifts, I still wouldn’t be able to afford rent and tuition,” she sighs. “I’m not like you, Ber; I don’t attract funding and scholarships just by breathing. Why am _I_ the one in grad school again? I distinctly remember you talking about that physics professor who couldn’t take no for an answer. Which, sorry, that sounded creepier than I meant for it to sound.”

You shove a bite of sandwich into your mouth. It’s egg salad this time, which is kind of nice. You haven’t had egg salad in a while. “I have three degrees and I love my job. Why bother getting a doctorate when I’m not planning to do anything with it? It seems like a waste of money, and I’d have to take time away from what I love in order to do it.”

“Fine, be all logical,” she says, a teasing grin on her face. You have to forcibly tear your eyes away from her so she doesn’t catch you staring like a moron. “At any rate, I can’t afford to move out yet. I’ll just have to suck it up. But thanks, Berry, for letting me sit here and eat with you. You always make me feel better.”

“It’s my job,” you reply absently, studying the substance in the microscope again, and then your brain catches up to your mouth. “I mean, not my _job_ job, I’ll always be there to make you feel better, because you’re my best friend and you should never be sad and you’re not an obligation, Iris, never an obligation, I didn’t mean it like _work-”_

“If you won’t stop being adorable, I might just have to hug you,” she says sternly, “and I don’t want weird substances on my shirt.”

“That sounds dirty,” you comment before you can stop yourself.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point,” she replies dryly, and you laugh along with her. This entire situation should be awkward and weird and difficult, but the fact is that Iris always makes _you_ feel better, too. Sometimes the easy relationship you share makes it impossible to feel anything but happy.

“And Berry? You really can’t go on like this. I can’t always feed you, and you can’t actually live in this lab. You have _got_ to get a life. In fact, you should get yourself a girlfriend,” she adds.

And _there’s_ the awkwardness you weren’t missing. Brilliant.

* * *

The problem with early morning crime scenes is that you have to stop at the station to pick up your kit and then run over, hoping you don’t incur the wrath of the supervising officer. Half the time you’re late, it’s just because you can’t run fast enough to get there on time. Everyone tells you that you ought to get a car, but the truth is that it wouldn’t help. You’d just set your alarm later, knowing you could leave later, and it actually might make you _tardier_ than you already are.

And then, of course, you have to deal with daily holdups and people talking to you and you should probably stop being so nice, but you’ve always valued interpersonal relations over punctuality.

“Glad to have you with us, Allen,” says Peterson, and you frown. Why is he here and not Smith? Peterson is…well, you wouldn’t go so far as to call him incompetent, but something’s been going on with him lately and he’s definitely not up to scratch.

“Sorry I’m late,” you offer, even though at this point everyone knows it’s an empty platitude. “I got held up.”

“What, by a mugger?”

“Worse,” you confess. “An ex of mine. Apparently, we have different definitions of ‘never want to see you again.’ He was…really whiny.”

Peterson shoots you a weird smile that sort of makes your skin crawl. He’s always been a little creepy. You know it’s not his fault – he’s never acted untoward or anything, he’s just naturally a little off – so you don’t say anything. “You must have made quite the impression.”

“Well, the handprint on his face was pretty spectacular, but that was years ago. Anyway, what are we waiting for? Why can’t we go in yet?”

“They’re still clearing the witnesses,” he replies.

“There were witnesses?”

“Of a sort. Two kids. We’re not sure they actually saw anything, but one’s being stubborn and he won’t leave his mother. Except his mother’s dead on the floor. He’s either seen quite the horror show or he just doesn’t know what’s going on.”

Your stomach drops unpleasantly. You know exactly what it’s like to be a witness, to be unwilling to leave your mother, to be dragged away by stern, but well-meaning, officers. You were hoping this murder would be easier than your first. Well, maybe it still can be. After all, you know how it works now; you can piece the actions together and hide the result behind glass, where you can examine it without letting it touch you.

“He probably knows,” you find yourself saying. “He just doesn’t want it to be true.”

“Here’s hoping that he didn’t see anything,” Peterson replies, straightening up when officers carry two crying children out of the door. “I’d hate for this to haunt them for the rest of their lives.”

“It will whether or not they saw it happen,” you tell him quietly, and then you lead the way inside. You have to be at the top of your game, so you shift your perspective, turn the door into the first piece of the puzzle, and _Look._


End file.
